


Born Under A Bad Sign (but you saved my life)

by Shaleschnueffler



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath, Aftermath of Possession, Angry Dean Winchester, Arguing, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Dreams, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Gen, Guilty Sam Winchester, Light Angst, Loss of Trust, Lying Sam Winchester, Miscommunication, Protective Dean Winchester, Regret, Somehow, Suicide Attempt, They both have a huge ego, They're not talking, Trust Issues, Why are they never talking, dean is pissed off, drunk, drunk mistakes, sam is pissed off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 10:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16406789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaleschnueffler/pseuds/Shaleschnueffler
Summary: Some weeks ago, he hit Dean. Knocked him out. Shot him. Almost killed him. Maybe his brother would never be whole again, and it would be entirely his fault.Aiming a gun at his head is easy, he figures. Pulling the trigger not so much, with an older brother who is, after all, very much awake.Or: Sam is drunk and does stupid shit that results in another argument with Dean in which neither of them wants to give in until they find themselves in a situation that forces both of them to bite the bullet and give up on their selfish haughtiness.Set after the events of S02 E14 - Born Under A Bad Sign





	Born Under A Bad Sign (but you saved my life)

**Author's Note:**

> Another SPN one shot! I'm not really happy with how this one turned out but eh. Why not. 
> 
> could be ooc. English is not my first language, blah blah blah, petty excuses for all the mistakes I've made, you get my drift. 
> 
> Started writing this shortly after watching the episode 'cause I felt way too much compassion for Sam; and also, I wanted to make him suffer again. It's always the same in my fanfictions. Holy shit. 
> 
> But do not fear, fellow readers, I am currently working on two stories that do not revolve around suffering!Sam! 
> 
> The title is inspired by both the original episode's title and a line from Fall Out Boy's G.I.N.A.S.F.S. which I love a lot.

It was late...well, not that late, actually. Maybe 1 in the morning. Maybe a little later. Definitely not a lot later.  
  
The shabby motel room's window was open wide, untouched, just as it had been two hours ago when Dean had opened it to let some fresh air in since the room had felt more than just a little stuffy.  
  
Now the air had long gone chilly, the last warmth of the sun had been replaced by biting cold that was streaming in through the window, then proceeding to circulate in the room, making Sam shiver.  
  
He'd promised to close it after tops an hour if his brother had fallen asleep by then but he couldn't get himself to get up from the uncomfortable chair at the moment.  
  
Or to stop staring at the half empty bottle in his hands, therefore.  
  
It had always been Sam who stayed up longer, mostly because of either the thoughts and worries that kept him awake, or the urge to be productive, to do some research and get their investigation moving.  
  
Right now, though, it was only his mind keeping him from laying down and closing his eyes.  
  
He had had two beers now, maybe even three. Or was this his fifth? His eyes darted around. There was one full bottle on the table. One out of six as they had definitely bought a six-pack earlier...six minus one equals five so he must've had five but there were only three scattered around the table.  
  
Where were the last bottles?  
  
Had Dean taken them?  
  
Or maybe... He lifted his head, panic in the unfocused hazel eyes as the thought of a ghost stealing his bottle crossed his mind. Sam needed a few seconds to realize that ghosts weren't invisible.  
  
And that he regularly fought them.  
  
He took a shaky sip from his beer when he noticed that he hadn't counted the one in his hands. Hmm.  
  
One was still missing.  
  
Hadn't a bottle fallen off the table earlier when he'd accidentally knocked it over?  
  
Ah, whatever.  
  
He shook his head to shake off the thoughts and turned his head to look at his brother, fast asleep on his huge bed. Why did Dean get the bigger beds all the time, even though Sam was taller than him?  
  
He grumbled something to himself when Dean suddenly moved in his sleep, now rolling over, but the second he did, a pained breath escaped his lips and cut through the silence that had settled down in the small room.  
  
The wound in his shoulder.  
  
Guilt overcame Sam, washing away all traces of the relaxed mood that he'd been in before.  
  
It had been some days since it had happened, since he'd knocked his brother out, shot him and hit him. Since he'd almost killed him.  
  
And the injury still hadn't healed up. After all the rest and the treatment, it was still painful for Dean to touch it or even move his shoulder, and it was obvious that it would most definitely scar.  
  
They hadn't talked about it anymore, afterwards. Sam had apologized once, twice, and the first time, Dean had told him that it was okay, that he hadn't been himself then, but after that, he'd started to react dismissively whenever Sam only broached the subject a little.  
  
Still, the anger and rage he felt wasn't guided at Dean and his ignorant behavior - or at least not completely -, but mostly at himself, and he knew that all too well.  
  
He tore his eyes from the pile on the bed that was his brother, now solely focusing on the bottle that he was slowly tilting from side to side while watching the auburn liquid slosh against the tinted glass.  
  
As if on automatic, his eyes darted to the gun on the table, some inches away from the empty bottles. They always had at least one around, besides the weapons they kept below under their pillows, easy to reach in case someone broke in or they had to get going as fast as possible, but not obvious enough for an intruder to notice on first sight.  
  
Openly having guns and other weapons spread out in their motel room had led to troubles more often than they both would like to admit.  
  
Bottle still in his left hand, Sam reached out with his right and traced the weapon's barrel with his fingers before closing them around the grip.  
  
The gun laid in his hand then, feeling so smooth against his skin as he lifted it up and upon loading it, he noticed that Dean hadn't even put it on safety. Putting the beer down on the table, he focused on the weapon in his hand and put it to his head. A shiver ran down Sam's spine when the cold muzzle connected to his temple.  
  
Eyes fixated on the wall in front of him, he let his index finger trace the trigger, softly, without any pressure. One motion of his hand, only a twitch in his finger, and he would be dead for good.  
  
Rustling of fabric, a sound that he had gotten used to, a sound that he _normally would've ignored if_...-  
  
\- "The hell, Sam?"  
  
He kept quiet, didn't move a single muscle when Dean spoke up, voice scratchy, obviously still drugged with sleep but only a second later, all the tiredness seemed to fall off of him when he realized what exactly it was that Sam was holding in his hand.  
  
\- "Put that gun down."  
  
Silence. Only the howling wind to be heard that was moving around the trees and houses outside.  
  
\- "Sam. I said. Put that gun down."  
  
He clenched his left hand and squinched his eyes shut, his right still loosely pointing the gun at his own head. Maybe if he ignored Dean, he'd just go back to sleep.  
  
Probably not.  
  
But as drunk as Sam was, he was blindly hoping for it to happen.  
  
It didn't.  
  
Instead, there was more rustling and a creak that was definitely coming from Dean's bed - it had been making these sounds for hours now, whenever the older hunter had moved an inch, let alone _rolled over_ , followed by the sound of bare feet on the wooden floor.  
  
\- "Stop."  
  
And Dean stopped.  
  
\- "One more step and I'll...-"  
  
He didn't finish that sentence. Couldn't finish it. It was so stupid. He was holding a gun to his head, threatening his _brother_ with his _own life_.  
  
The alcohol really was kicking in. But he didn't care. Not right now.  
  
Dean could only stare at Sam in disbelief, not sure whether he should feel worried or angry at his brother for being so stupidly selfish - if he was really going to put that bullet through his head, then he was a lot weaker than the older man had thought.  
  
He was almost sure that he'd be more disappointed and angry at Sam than mournful over his death - his suicide.  
  
He found himself in a situation he'd never thought he'd be in. And he didn't know what to do.  
  
\- "Sam, you're drunk-"  
  
\- "Don't."  
  
Sam had his back on Dean, and so he couldn't possibly see his face, couldn't tell whether the taller hunter was bluffing or actually telling the truth - if the latter was the case, then Dean had to take action fast before Sam really pulled the trigger on himself.  
  
Careful not to make a sound, he braced himself as he charged forward without a warning, launching himself at his brother and pulling him to the side, off the chair he'd been sitting on. His hand wrapped around Sam's in an attempt to force the gun out of his tightly clenched fingers, and soon both men were lying on the ground in a desperate fight over control over both combat and weapon.  
  
Whatever happened, though, whether Sam kicked him or rammed his elbow right into his lungs, the one thing Dean wouldn't let go was the gun. The gun that fired a shot when the older man twisted his wrist to force Sam to let go, leaving both men more than just a little startled.  
  
Dean's eyes darted from Sam to the spot in the wall where the bullet had hit and back, when suddenly, he was pushed to the side, hitting the floor with his left shoulder. Holding back a pained groan, he got back to his knees and forced Sam onto his back, now able to yank the gun from his hand and slide it away from the two of them.  
  
He was on top of Sam now, breathing heavily, his vision already a blur again from all the blood he'd lost. His wound had opened up again.  
  
\- "Why? Why the hell would you do that?", he demanded to know, words clipped and cold.  
  
\- "I...", Sam breathed in response, not meeting Dean's eyes and instead turning his face away from him.  
  
He was ashamed. _He wasn't even sure, for fuck's sake_. But this time - shoulder throbbing, head aching, disappointment deep in his bones -, Dean felt no compassion.  
  
\- "You...are you fucking serious? You think the world would be better off without you or what? You think I would be better off without you?!"  
  
A shrug. Dean knew that Sam was drunk, that he didn't quite know what he was doing. But he wasn't gonna let _that_ cloud his judgment, oh hell no. His brother needed to learn that there were boundaries that should not be crossed.  
  
\- "Go to bed. You're drunk.", he blankly stated after getting up from the floor, and cringed when a piercing pain shot through his whole arm.  
  
Sam didn't fight him on this. Just cast him an angry glance, stood, and walked over to the bed. Burying his face in the pillows, he sloppily pulled the blanket over his shoulders as Dean shook his head in disbelief; deep frown plastered on his face.  
  
Only now did he notice that a bottle of beer had apparently toppled over, according to the sticky liquid dripping from the table's edge onto the ground. He decided that he didn't care, or at least not enough to bother to clean it up. Maybe tomorrow. Probably not.  
  
At the moment, he had more important things to take care of - re-bandage his hurt shoulder, for example; or watch over Sam.  
  
Somehow, Dean felt like he wasn't going to get any sleep anymore.  
  
And, of course, he was right. He barely managed to force his eyes closed, let alone get some rest that night.  
  
They barely talked the next days, only cast each other pissed off glances; and it all stayed like that, until about one and a half weeks later, when they'd just checked in in another motel - although they'd wanted to be in Arkansas by now, but a raging storm had forced them to seek shelter, and this rundown building had been the only one around in miles.  
  
\- "Sam."  
  
Dean stood in front of him, anger in his dark eyes that were locked with his own. Sam tried to push past his brother, but was held back by a broad arm that shoved him back firmly.  
  
\- "No, I won't let you ignore me any longer. It's been weeks since that thing happened, and you're still being a bitch about it."  
  
\- "Let me go, Dean."  
  
He cast Dean a glare but was met with a sharp snarl.  
  
\- "We need to talk about this shit at some point."  
  
\- " _You_ are telling me we need to _talk_? You hit your head or something?"  
  
\- "Listen, Sam.", Dean started, looking into the taller hunter's eyes who simply crossed his arms as a sign for his brother to go on.  
  
\- "I just wanna know why. Just why. You can't possibly think we'd be better off without you."  
  
\- "I wasn't even gonna shoot myself!", he burst out and forcefully swatted Dean's hand away when he reached out to lay it down on Sam's shoulder.  
  
This action seemed to make the older man snap as he squared his shoulders and leaned forward in a way that would've threatened Sam - if only he wasn't even taller than Dean, and if only he hadn't faced this behavior a million times before already.  
  
\- "Oh, you _weren't gonna shoot yourself_? I'm sorry, I must've misinterpreted the way you _pointed a gun at your own fucking head_!"  
  
\- "That...I'm not talking about that!"  
  
\- "What else, then?"  
  
Sam didn't feel like answering. He just wanted to push Dean aside, stomp through the door of their cheap motel room and walk away, somewhere, _anywhere_ , just to get away from his stupid brother.  
  
Still, Dean didn't really look like he was going to give up, let alone let Sam go, within the next few hours - or days, considering how he'd stuck to the taller man at all times throughout the last weeks. Since it had happened.  
  
He somehow understood his brother's worries. Yes, he had pointed a gun at his head, and yes, he hadn't explained anything to Dean although there was _a lot_ to explain if he thought about it. But the longer Dean was around, the more annoyed he got with him.  
  
They had barely talked during that time, had both been more than just a little pissed off at each other but Dean had still refused to leave Sam's side for more than a few minutes, no matter how intensely they fought - and they had fought a lot. If not verbally, then with their eyes; had cast each other angry glances and eye rolls.  
  
\- "I just wanted to know what it feels like, that's...that's what people _do_ , Dean!"  
  
\- "You're fucking _crazy_. Sam, people _don't_ _put a gun to their own head_ to know what it _feels like_ , you've had a weapon in your face more often than I could count, _what else do you want_?! You should be _grateful_ that nobody ever put a bullet in your head!"  
  
\- "You just don't get it, do you?!"  
  
\- "Apparently, I don't."  
  
\- "You're not even trying to understand me."  
  
\- "You know what, Sam? I don't even care. Do whatever you want. Just fucking shoot yourself if that's what you want, I don't care."  
  
Dean pushed past him with these words, and dropped down on his bed, his back turned to Sam, without saying a word. Pretending to be busy, he reached for the gun on the nightstand and started to check for lead fouldings and ammo.  
  
Sam had woken up then, in the uncomfortable bed that was way too small for his long limbs, fists clenched, anger boiling in his body as he realized that it had only been a dream, that Dean hadn't confronted him about what had happened back then, that they _still hadn't sorted things out._ He could live with that, he thought; as he started to wonder whether the dream could've been a vision of some sorts. He decided on 'no' as an answer relatively fast.  
  
And then he proceeded to be even more of a sulky asshole.  
  
And therefore, things got worse from then on. They talked even less, not even yelling insults at each other anymore. Sam was barely looking at Dean, and the other way around, but the older hunter still wouldn't leave his brother's side - still wouldn't trust him.  
  
Bobby tried to somehow bring them down again at some point but both brothers' ego was keeping them from apologizing - or asking for forgiveness, therefore, although they knew exactly that both of them were to blame for the tense atmosphere and the problems that came up during hunts because none of them would listen to the other one's orders or suggestions anymore.  
  
It was bearable, at least. The hunts were mostly easy and simple, therefore neither life-threatening nor complicated: A few poltergeists, some vengeful spirits, a demon now and then. Nothing that required a lot of research or time.  
  
That one case, though, mentally pushed both men to the edge.  
  
It was cold outside, Dean was sitting inside the Impala, a burger, still in its wrappings, on the passenger seat. He'd opened it, had tried to take a bite, but had put it back down and wrapped it back up when he had started to suddenly feel sick. He'd turned off the engine after about 20 minutes of waiting, and slowly but steadily, the heating's warmth that had embraced him, was escaping the car and it was getting chilly inside. Pulling his leather jacket tighter around his body, he looked at his phone for a second to check for the time.  
  
Sam was out there, somewhere. The older hunter hadn't wanted to split up, of course he hadn't, but this had been the only way to get this done and they both knew that all too well. Dean had to cover his brother, should someone - or something - approach the area from this side, and after all that happened, he was still more than willed to have Sam's back at all times, even though he definitely wouldn't stop acting like an asshole until Sam apologized to him.  
  
He could only hope that this would turn out to be a successful hunt. That Sam wouldn't decide that life wasn't worth living after all.  
  
God, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop the anger from taking over whenever he thought back to that night. And so he tried not to, and started to quietly sing an AC/DC song to more or less successfully distract himself.  
  
Another ten minutes passed before Dean's phone rang. Quickly, he accepted the call, just to be met by heavy, deafeningly loud breathing.  
  
\- "Dean, I...I got a problem."  
  
Sam's voice sounded strained and he was obviously out of breath, he must've been running for minutes now, but somehow, Dean didn't soften up at the words; wasn't flooded with both worry and relief that his brother was still okay, if in a bad situation. The only thing he felt was rage.  
  
They hadn't talked in _days_ , only once to arrange this part of the hunt - of course, resulting in another heated argument filled with insults and excessive gestures -, and now Sam was calling him with this _pleading tune in his voice_ , basically _asking to get his ass saved_ after acting like a freaking _selfish_ _child_ for the past few weeks.  
  
\- "Oh, what? I wouldn't say you only got _one_.", he growled, now, after all, unwrapping his burger and taking a large bite, making sure to chew purposefully audibly.  
  
\- "Dean, I'm serious. They're after me."  
  
\- "Yeah, so what?"  
  
Before Sam could utter a response, though, a loud bang that Dean immediately identified as a gunshot, rang out from what he figured was not too far behind, followed by loud, if muffled, shouts.  
  
Seemed like his brother had roused the whole cult like a flock of chicken inside a henhouse.  
  
Except, those people weren't some scared up birds, but a cannibalistic and cruel sect of religious fanatics that appeared to be after a specific Sam Winchester who had - ideally - just stolen the journal back. The one that they had stolen from the brothers first.  
  
\- " **DEAN**."  
  
Of course, the anger was present in the younger hunter's voice - understandable, really, if you considered that, right now, _Dean_ was the one basically threatening him with his own life - oh, how the tables had turned -, but there was something resembling desperation to be heard as well; Sam really wasn't in the mood to fuck around now.  
  
But Dean didn't care, hell, _why would he_?  
  
He'd been okay with the whole demon thing, he'd been okay with Sam shooting him because _it hadn't been **him**_ back then; he'd been okay with Sam apologizing because he knew just _how bad_ his brother felt about the whole thing. He'd been okay with it all.  
  
But Sam had crossed a line with that gun up to his head.  
  
_Again_ , his brother had crossed a line, and _again_ , he had neither explained nor apologized, although the older man wasn't even sure what there was left to explain. Aiming a gun at your own face spoke for itself, in his opinion.  
  
And so he went on.  
  
Just a little more. Just to teach Sam a lesson. He would be alright.  
  
\- "That's what you wanted, right?"  
  
\- "Dean, I need you _right now_."  
  
\- "You want me to get you out and risk my own life just so you can blast your brain out the next day? When you could just do as you wish and die right there, right now?"  
  
He couldn't do anything about the biting words that tumbled out of his mouth; that he basically shouted although originally, he hadn't even wanted to raise his voice.  
  
\- "Dean, I _told you_ I wasn't gonna shoot myself."  
  
\- "Oh, you told me? Can't remember that. I _can_ remember you threatening me to come closer with a gun to your head and your finger on the trigger, though."  
  
His gaze was trained forward, eyes blankly set on the wooden gate ahead, his free hand gripping the car's wheel tightly, knuckles gone white from the force with which he was holding on to it.  
  
That was when Sam realized that he'd been confusing reality and dream for the past few weeks.  
  
\- "I...Dean, don't be like that now, for fuck's sake. I'll explain it to you later, just g-ET **ME OUT**."  
  
The last words got interrupted by another deafening bang, followed by a loud dull sound as the taller hunter threw himself to the floor to dodge the bullet, phone slipping out of his shaky grip and hitting the uneven ground. He hurried to pick it up again after he'd gotten his feet back below his own body, heavy breathing clearly audible.  
  
\- "Fuck you, you know? _Just fuck you!_ ", Dean yelled, protective instincts taking over as he violently smashed his clenched fist down on the steering wheel, angry at himself for not being able to stand his brother's pleas any longer.  
  
He had already carelessly thrown the junk food aside about a half minute ago, and was now starting up the Impala's engine, foot on the gas pedal, ready to get going as soon as he received the much-needed information about his brother's current whereabouts.  
  
\- "Where the hell are you?"  
  
\- "I...I don't know... Somewhere in the area. Turned right when I left the building...there's a hill to my left. Got the journal, though-..."  
  
\- " _I don't care about that fucking journal._ Keep going, I'm on my way."  
  
When Sam had left the narrow gate that was barely wide enough for the Impala to pass through and that separated the 'cult grounds', as they lovingly called it, from the outside world, open, Dean surely hadn't thought that he'd be grateful for it - right now, though, he was. Fingers nervously thrumming on the wheel, he slowly pressed down on the accelerator, smoothly maneuvering his baby over the bump in the ground; and as soon as he felt the back tires sink down again, - a sign that he had successfully passed the gate completely - he proceeded to floor the gas pedal, the car purring loudly as it took up speed.  
  
Soon, the Impala was roaring down the gravel road ahead, loose pebbles drumming against its sides but Dean couldn't get himself to care right now. Once the building got in his sight, he spun the wheel around, taking a right turn to round the shabby shack that, admittedly, was way bigger than he'd thought.  
  
They hadn't had time to even come here once before - since _the cult_ had found _them_ before _they_ had found _the cult_ \- which had been one of the reasons why Dean hadn't wanted Sam to come here all on his own - simply sneaking into a building without knowing how big it was, where the journal was kept and, most importantly, how many people there were, was basically suicide. But in the end, Sam had gotten his will, and now, just as Dean had thought, he had to somehow get his little brother out of this _inconvenient situation._  
  
After about two minutes of aimlessly driving around, eyes darting from side to side to take in any movement he could possibly make out in the dark, he saw a figure, only a silhouette, slowly but steadily moving towards him.  
  
The closer he got, the more certain it became that this was, indeed, his brother, if slightly disheveled.  
  
The closer he got, the more certain it became that there was a group of _armed shouting bumpkins roughly 20 feet behind_ ; and so Dean yanked the steering wheel around while pressing down on the brake, forcing the Impala to come to a jarring sudden stop as the tires slid over the uneven ground sporadically covered in fine grass.  
  
As soon as Sam - clothes torn, arm covered in blood -, made a move to yank the passenger door open, Dean reached out to grab the half-eaten burger and the phone that he'd deposited on the seat before and blithely threw them over his shoulder, the latter loudly smacking against the top of the car, but Sam just stood there, one foot inside the car, the other still on the wet ground outside; right hand covering an apparent wound in his upper arm; eyes set on the cult that was steadily drawing closer to the two hunters, shotguns raised and more or less accurately aimed at the taller man.  
  
\- "Now **_get in_** or **_get out_** but _get the fuck **moving**!",_ Dean shouted, tensely eyeing the mob of people - although he wasn't even sure whether one could possibly call those maniacs 'people' anymore -, and Sam seemed to snap out of the line of thought he'd been lost in.  
  
For a split second, he lowered his pensive gaze and met Dean's, eyes filled with uncertainty and remorse; as if he was going to straighten himself, broad-shouldered, and take the shot that was about to dart his way but right when the loud bang rang out, he ducked down, quickly pulling the door close after getting his second foot inside.  
  
Dean stepped on the gas then, as some of the shot pellets struck the Impala, setting off a loud clattering sound that made him cringe in compassion for his baby.  
  
They fled the place, and they did it in silence.  
  
Only after about 15 minutes did Dean realize that his brother had just decided to live. He hadn't simply entered the car and urged Dean to get them out of there, no. He had _contemplated death_. And he had decided against it.  
  
A wave of bittersweet relief, mixed with a skosh of pride for his sibling, washed over him, and he relaxed into the Impala's seat, audibly exhaling before turning his head to the right for a moment, skeptically but caringly eyeing Sam who was staring at the journal in his blood-coated hands.  
  
\- "Dean...", he suddenly raised his voice, softly, still not looking up, startling the older man; regret and sorrow clear on his features.  
  
He looked so small. So hurt. So guilty and broken.

  
Dean didn't know what to say. And so he said the one thing that he had always said; green eyes stolidly set on the road ahead.  
  
\- "I know."  
  
It was enough to make Sam understand that Dean didn't want to talk about it now.  
  
If he was being honest, he didn't want to talk about it either.  
  
Both of them knew that if they didn't talk now, they would never do.  
  
Both of them were okay with that.  
  
Talking had never really been their thing anyway.


End file.
